


Black

by jesuisfarouche



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: IN SPACE!, OFPD, space
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-26
Updated: 2014-03-26
Packaged: 2018-01-17 02:11:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1370077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jesuisfarouche/pseuds/jesuisfarouche
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The monitor next to navigation is flashing, lines of numbers and letters spelling out errors and warnings.</p><p>Something pops on the navigation console and sends a shower of sparks into the air that dissipate before they hit the floor. Enjolras steadies himself, runs a hand through his hair, and turns back to the main console. He scans the lines of code as they appear on the monitor.</p><p>“She can’t take another hit.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Black

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [[授权翻译]Black](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6456718) by [K_Maru](https://archiveofourown.org/users/K_Maru/pseuds/K_Maru)



_**Error 374-344** _

_**Error 3843-323** _

_**Error 837403-475** _

_**Error 837403-494** _

_**Environmental Control System Failure** _

_**Engine System Failure** _

_**Catastrophic System Failure Imminent** _

_**Situation Life-Critical** _

 

There is a noise, a steady, high-pitched noise, itching in his ear. It’s all he can hear. The floor beneath him should be hot - metal grate over whirring instruments and a faint glowing light - but it feels cold. Everything is falling apart, everything is going to shit, and that damn high-pitched noise—

He hears his name called as if from far away. Once more. “Enjolras!” It’s closer now. He looks up, the noise in his ear is gone, and Combeferre is standing above him, reaching down and tugging at his arm. “Get up, the hull is all but breached.”

They’re on the bridge, the two of them and Courfeyrac. It’s coming back to him now. Whatever had hit the ship had hit it hard, harder than should be possible to keep the _Liberté_ from falling apart. The monitor next to navigation is flashing, lines of numbers and letters spelling out errors and warnings. Power had been lost for several moments, but the emergency generator kicked in and though electric is only at half-power, it’s still on.

Enjolras puts a hand to something wet at his ear, and sees blood on his fingers. The _Liberté_ shudders, and a deep, low groan echoes through the bridge. Something pops on the navigation console and sends a shower of sparks into the air that dissipate before they hit the floor. Enjolras steadies himself, runs a hand through his hair, and turns back to the main console. He scans the lines of code as they appear on the monitor. “She can’t take another hit.”

There’s a soft cry from the floor where Courfeyrac is still sitting, shaky hands lifting away from his abdomen where a jagged piece of metal torn away in the blast had embedded itself into his gut. Combeferre is at his side in a heartbeat, gently pulling his wrists away from where he wants to try to pull the metal out.

“It’s over, Enjolras,” Combeferre says with a grunt as he pulls Courfeyrac’s arm over his shoulder and helps to lift him onto his feet. Courfeyrac grits his teeth and inhales sharply, the pain of the metal shifting around, twisting against already broken skin. “We have to go.”

“Go.” Enjolras turns back to the console. “The shuttle is intact and operational with supplies enough to get you to the nearest planet.”

“Enjolras.”

“I’ll hit them with everything we have left and hopefully that’ll be enough of a distraction—“

“Enjolras—“

“Combeferre—” Courfeyrac cries out, some sudden pain making his knees go weak. He’s pale, a sheen of sweat covering his face and neck, and he sways on his feet. “I’m gonna pass out—“

“You are absolutely not,” Combeferre says, lightly slapping Courfeyrac’s face, a small smile playing across his features but fear in his eyes as he looks over to Enjolras. “Please. _Please_ don’t stay here.”

There’s a sad sort of acceptance written on Enjolras’ face, a look that makes him appear many times older than he is, a look that doesn’t seem like it belongs and yet couldn’t ever make sense on anyone else. “Live, Combeferre.”

“Combeferre…“

Courfeyrac’s arm over his shoulder, Combeferre starts to pull the two of them towards the door. He gives Enjolras one last look as another pop on the navigation console sends another spray of sparks flying out behind the man.

“Thank you.”

And then Enjolras is left alone.

 

The alarms have stopped.

He realizes this before he even realizes he’s awake. The alarms have stopped and he is bathed in an eerie silence, save for a deep groan in the bowels of the ship. The shuttle is attached to the _Liberté_ ’s belly, to be used only in emergencies or if one has a desperate need of a place to sleep off the previous night’s carousing.

Grantaire’s mouth is dry and tastes of gin.

He blinks several times, rubs his face with his hands, scratches his scalp, and wonders why the hell the alarms were going off in the first place and what made everything go quiet. He stares out of the shuttle’s windows, and all he sees are thousands and thousands of pinpricks of light, millions of miles away.

It’s not quiet for long. Combeferre appears in the doorway to the shuttle, all but dragging Courfeyrac, both of them covered in blood. “Prepare the shuttle for launch, Grantaire,” Combeferre orders him, placing nearly-unconscious Courfeyrac in the co-pilot seat and struggling to secure the safety belt over his lap. His hands slip on the metal buckle now made red.

“What the hell is going on?”

“Now, Grantaire.”

He does as he’s told, flips a few switches and types several commands into the console’s computer. “Where are the others?”

“There are no others.”

Grantaire’s body goes numb, cold. He blinks once, twice, three times before speaking again. “And Enjolras?

By now Combeferre has secured Courfeyrac in his seat and has pushed past Grantaire to the controls. The shuttle is shaky on the auxiliary power but still operational, just as Enjolras said it would be. “He’s staying behind to give us a chance.”

Grantaire’s eyes shift from Combeferre at the helm to Courfeyrac unconscious in the co-pilot seat. “How far are we from the nearest world?”

“A week and change in the shuttle.”

“Three’s too many.”

Grantaire has begun to take a few backwards steps, closer and closer to the open door. Combeferre turns. “What?”

“Three people won’t make it more than a week. There’s not enough water on board.”

He steps backwards over the doorsill. Combeferre takes a step towards him, but he’s too far away. “Grantaire, no—“

“Goodbye.”

And he’s gone, sprinting down the corridor, ignoring Combeferre’s pleas for him to return. He doesn’t stop running until he hears the shuttle detach from the ship. He waits five seconds, then ten, and, not hearing an explosion, makes his way to the bridge.

 

Enjolras stands at the helm, curls a sweaty mess stuck to his forehead, burned and hurt and weak, silhouetted by the nearest star burning in the distance, a haze of smoke filling the room. He realizes Grantaire is there the moment he’s on the bridge.

The lights of the center console flicker, illuminating a hundred buttons and levers and switches and Enjolras’ hand frozen on the manual steering lever. There is nowhere to steer at this point, but instinct and muscle memory had taken over.

A beat.

“Why?”

Grantaire steps towards him. Out the window the larger ship looms, close enough to destroy with one last act of defiance. Grantaire begins dismantling every safety measure left working. “You know why.”

Enjolras watches him override the explosive restrictions and set the payload to detonate manually. Grantaire looks up at him. “Assuming this is all okay with you, of course.”

He could laugh, but he doesn’t. Instead he pulls the silver chain from around his neck, hands the key hanging from it to Grantaire, who inserts it into its proper place and turns it.

All that illuminates them now are the red warning lights flashing over the bridge, the countdown on the damaged computer monitor, and the light from the closest star on their faces.

Their fingers entwine as they stare out into the black. One of them tenses, the other grasps his hand tighter.

In the middle of the black, there is a brilliant burst of light, and then there is nothing. No sound, no fire. Just thousands and thousands of pinpricks of light, millions of miles away.


End file.
